


Stolen

by josephina_x



Series: Indistinguishable from Science [2]
Category: Smallville
Genre: And Nobody Likes Being Told What To Do, Gen, Imprisonment, Magic, Science, Somebody Is Wrong, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephina_x/pseuds/josephina_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first week of captivity for Lex does not go smoothly. Or well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Stolen  
> Author: [josephina_x](http://josephina-x.livejournal.com)  
> Fandom: Smallville  
> Pairing: Clark, Lex  
> Rating: PG-13 (R, if you worry about swearing)  
> Spoilers: an AU that diverges during the season 7 finale; most everything before that is the same, excepting the one "factoid" that I've changed  
> Word count: 6500+  
> Summary: The first week of captivity for Lex does not go smoothly. Or well.  
> Warnings: Un-beta'd.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not-for-profit.  
> Comments: Yes, please! :)  
> Author's Note: Second in the series, _Indistinguishable from Science_. [Plays with an old trope.](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Familiar) (Couldn't help myself; the idea's just come up a couple times recently in a roundabout way. I've been reading sci-fi/fantasy short story anthologies lately; my brain pops out weird things when I do that.) Part 2 overall.

~*~*~*~*~*~

" _You are not a space wizard!_ " Lex protested angrily, for the thirty-first time.

"I didn't say I was, and that's not how this works!" Clark told him, exasperation apparent, for the seventeenth time. --There were a few times he'd said slightly-different things, and some others that he'd said nothing at all and just glowered in return.

Lex crossed his arms and glared up at Clark from the dirt floor, upon which he was sitting.

"Look, can you just eat your dinner, please?" Clark said, with a level of despairing frustration that had Lex digging in almost immediately, because he didn't want to risk Clark taking it away. He wasn't about to punish himself by not eating what Clark gave him; wasting away by starving himself certainly wouldn't do _him_ any good, and it wouldn't have any negative impact on _Clark_ whatsoever.

Clark sighed and stormed out, stomping up the stairs of the storm cellar to the outside. He slammed the cellar doors closed behind him, and Lex heard the lock go.

Lex sighed slightly to himself once Clark was gone, and looked down at the tary he had balanced in his lap. Normal utensils, large glass of milk, plate of chicken-and-brocolli casserole -- which wasn't half-bad -- and mashed potatoes that he hadn't tried yet. Clark had even given him a slice of apple pie, and it smelled divine.

One thing was for certain, at least: Clark had inherited his adoptive mother's gift for cooking, and Lex was going to eat it all.

That, and Lex still wasn't getting out of his shackles and chains anytime soon.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lex had finished off the late dinner long-since by the time Clark returned.

"Been awhile," he said, leaning back against the dirt wall and watching Clark from under half-lidded eyes.

"It's only been thirty minutes," Clark said, frowning at him.

"No," said Lex, just to be contrary, "It's been--"

He glanced down at his watch and paused. The hour and minute hands hadn't moved since he'd looked at him last.

"Problem?" Clark said, not really asking.

"My watch isn't working," Lex informed him anyway. He doubted it was Clark's fault -- at least directly. Clark had been careful to push the watchband down to the base of his wrist, before bending the metal shackles farther up his arm than his watch. All he could think of was that it must have been the proximity to the Fortress earlier that afternoon, and exposure to the whatever-it-was that usually shielded the place, that the presence of the Orb had let him pass-through, largely unharmed. Except for his watch.

"Well, at least it isn't your mother's," Clark pointed out, as he took the tray and vanished back up the stairs.

'Vanished' as in 'walked at normal speed', that is.

The doors were left hanging open. ...At least, Lex assumed so, because he didn't hear Clark close them.

And about a second or two later, Clark was walking back down the stairs with an armful of bed.

\--Two armfuls, actually. One held a boxspring, the other a mattress-proper.

Clark thunked them down onto the dirt floor next to Lex, one on top of the other, long side following the wall.

Lex turned his head and looked at this spectacle of events, narrow-eyed, as Clark turned around and headed back up the stairs again.

He turned to call after him, but he was gone.

He waited impatiently the few seconds it took for Clark to reappear again.

"That looks like one of my beds," he accused, pointing at it the foot of it where it sat at his left elbow, as Clark approached.

"So?" Clark said, as he tossed a set of sheets down onto the mattress, along with three pillows.

"You stole one of my beds," Lex accused of him again, because for some reason this _apparently_ hadn't sunk in the first time around.

"No, I didn't," Clark said, as he flicked his wrists and the first mattress pad billowed outward over the bed.

"Well, then, where did you get it?" Lex demanded peevishly, crossing his arms again.

"I got it from the mansion," Clark informed him with a complete lack of concern.

This had Lex hopes rising somewhat, because if he'd taken it from one of the bedrooms, his cleaning staff would notice--

"You've got a couple in storage," Clark finished.

\--unless he took it from the attic, in which case nobody would notice until an inventory was done. Which wouldn't happen until one of the beds needed replacing. Which hardly ever happened.

"Where'd you get the sheets?" he needled Clark.

"One of the linen closets."

Damn. That probably wouldn't get noticed, either. Lex wasn't entirely sure the staff kept careful count. They probably didn't, since the sheets got stained and needed to be tossed out, now and again.

"You still stole from me," Lex fell back on, because that, at least, was true, and ought to garner at least a _little_ remorse.

But Clark just tossed him a look, as he finished with the mattress pad and aired out the next sheet. "I'm not stealing from you," he repeated, as he got it smoothed out and started on the corners.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you--"

"-- _Look_ ," Clark said, standing up and turning to face him. "I'm not stealing from you. It's _your_ bed, and now it's here. _I'm_ not using it. It's not for me. _You're_ using it. That makes it _yours_. **Not** mine." He picked up the pillows. "And if it's not mine now, then I didn't steal anything. I just moved it. So you can use it better."

He tossed the pillows into Lex's lap.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" Lex said, frowning up at him.

"Put the pillowcases on," he was told, and then the pillowcases followed suit -- right into his lap, on top of the rest of the pile.

Then Clark turned around and left again.

Lex muttered foul imprecations under his breath at Clark, as he started stuffing pillows into pillowcases, and tossing the done-up ones back onto the bed as he finished with them. Given that Clark hadn't closed up the cellar doors yet, he assumed that Clark would be back.

He was, with heavy blankets this time.

They weren't from the mansion.

"Where are those from?" Lex asked warily.

"The house," Clark said, as he laid them out for him, and then rearranged the pillows.

Lex eyed the done-up bed.

"Okay, 'cmon," Clark said, gesturing at the bed.

"No," said Lex, crossing his arms over his knees.

Clark's eyes narrowed.

"I've been sitting in dirt for hours," he told Clark. "I'll get it all dirty." And he wasn't sleeping in dirt, damnit, _or_ grinding it into one of his beds, or Mrs. Kent's good blankets.

...It wasn't like it'd do any good, other than to make Lex uncomfortable. Mrs. Kent was in D.C. for the forseeable future. She wasn't going to notice anything awry, like overly-dirty laundry that shouldn't be.

"Then get up and dust yourself off," Clark told him.

"What, no pajamas or a shower?" Lex muttered as he slowly stood. If it was a choice between a bed and no bed, which was what Clark's wrath was starting to look like to him... Lex didnt want to risk it.

"There isn't a shower down here," Clark told him, "or a tub." He turned to go. "But I guess I could get you some pajamas and stuff."

Lex teetered as he leaned against the wall, and blinked after him.

He glanced around, peering into the less-shadowy corners by the dim light of the single bulb. Had he missed something?

...Well, it wasn't like he had a lot of leash on his chain. He couldn't even reach the pull-string of the light dangling overhead, a few feet in front of him. And if Clark didn't want a mess on his hands later...

Lex grimaced.

Clark was back in short order with pajamas -- from the mansion -- and slippers, too. He also had a toothbrush and toothpaste, and washcloth and towel for him. Those, Lex didn't recognize as being his. They looked new, even the towel.

He handed them all over into Lex's arms, and as Lex stood there numbly, Clark pulled apart the fetters at his wrists.

"The bathroom's over there," he gestured to the near corner.

Lex turned his head and looked. He frowned.

He glanced back at Clark.

"Go on," he was told.

Lex went.

It turned out that what he'd thought was just a large stack of crates was actually a single stack of crates set up as a crude dividing wall. Tentatively walking around it, he saw a rather regular-looking porcelain sink and toilet, over a sloping grey concrete pad with a small drain in the center of it. There was even a mirror set in above the sink, and a small shelf on one side -- really just a shorter stack of another two crates jutting out -- and a canvas sheet with two loops at the corners hanging from a hook on one side of the wall. There was another hook attached to one of the boxes in the stack, so that it could be spread out as a makeshift curtain.

He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped inside and set his bundle down on the 'shelf'. He took ahold of the free rope loop and pulled it up over the second hook to give himself some privacy. Then he did his business.

He looked around as he finished changed clothing, sliding his feet into the slippers, and noted that there was nothing here that he could use to escape. He also knew better than to try and run -- Clark would catch up with him before he took two steps, let alone made the stairs.

So he sighed angrily to himself, set his jaw, grabbed up his dirty clothes, unhooked the curtain, and walked out again.

He noticed that Clark was sitting in a folding chair, looking right at him as he did so, and the way his eyes had tracked him coming out...

He stifled a shudder. He didn't like to think of Clark having been able to see him through the crates and curtain. Was that even possible?

He ought to have a right to _some_ privacy, even if Clark was dead-set on treating him like an animal, the bastard.

He dropped his clothing into Clark's lap, dirtiest-side down -- on purpose.

He waited for Clark to stand up and put the pile down in the chair, and he made Clark drag him back over to the shackles and made him hold him down on the bed to get him back into them.

Lex glared bloody murder up at him from his prone position on the bed as Clark finally let him up.

He sat up slowly as Clark moved off, then slipped his feet out of his slippers and pulled his legs up onto the bed.

He curled up with his back to Clark. On purpose.

He heard Clark sigh. Mostly in frustration.

He said cooly, "I hope you realize that I can't reach the light-pull, or the bathroom, with the length of chain you have me on."

Clark just said, as he clicked off the light, "If you wake up and need anything, just yell for me."

Lex snorted. "Like you'll hear me and come."

"I will."

"Well, I very much appreciate your faith in me, Clark," he said sardonically, "but I really can't yell loud enough for you to hear me from the farmhouse."

"Lex," said Clark with tired and tried patience, "I'll hear you from the farmhouse if you yell. I'll hear you from the fields if you yell."

"You'll hear me from the town if I yell?" Lex parroted sarcastically.

"Lex, I'll hear you from _Metropolis_ if you yell."

With that, Clark walked out. Lex heard the storm cellar doors close, and the sliding of chains between the handles. He heard the clack of the padlock tying the chain together.

Lex closed his eyes against the dark, and thought about all that.

And that was the end of the first day.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Things went on like this for about a week, with only small changes.

Those small changes were...

...The food was different at every meal. Lex got three of them a day. No snacks, no matter how much he whined, and Clark didn't do requests. He made what he wanted to make.

If and when Lex complained that he wanted a second helping, Clark stoically got up, took his plate or what-have-you, and got him some more.

Clark started eating with Lex at mealtimes, and this involved the setup and takedown of a round folding card table and two folding chairs, which Clark took care of. No tablecloth. All the food and drink stayed in the house, except for what they were eating.

Clark cleared up their dishes when they were done, and presumably washed them.

Lex tried asking Clark once if they could take turns doing the dishes, as it was only fair. Clark had just given him a look.

The second afternoon, Lex had tried to stab Clark in the eye with his fork. Clark had sat there next to him on the edge of his bed, tray balanced on his knees, and blinked at him.

Then he had taken ahold of Lex's wrist, taken the fork from Lex's grasp, straightened out the tines, and forcibly handed it right back.

Lex didn't try that again.

This also might have been part of what had instigated Clark's move to sitting in the folding chair, leaving Lex to his edge-of-the-bed eating, and then tabletop eating three days later, as it had him sitting across and at a distance from Lex, at a little more than an armslength away.

...The storm cellar got rearranged. By the afternoon of the third day, anyone walking down the stairs into it would not immediately see Lex over against the far wall to their right.

Instead, several shelves full of stuff got moved in up close to the stairs, about a yard to the right as one walked down them. It created a kind of corridor coming in.

A second, staggered row of shelving was shoved over to be set another three feet beyond that, so that even getting around the first row wouldn't have Lex being seen. It required walking down one, then the other, a little like a maze.

Canvas was hung down from the ceiling just behind that second row, from hooks Clark put in. It divided off the storm cellar neatly, and helped keep the heat in the area where Lex now ate, slept, and... lived.

It also left Lex with more space, now that the nearby shelving was removed from anything close to his immediate reach. This also resulted in Clark adding a significant length of chain to Lex's fetters.

Personally, Lex didn't really see the point of it, because there wasn't anything keeping Lex from being heard if he called out to anyone coming down the stairs. ...unless the extra space and the retainment of heat had been the point. It still didn't explain why Clark hadn't just arranged them in several short columns instead, as that would have worked just as well and required less walking and maneuvering through a passageway of shelves.

Right before the hanging up of the canvas, on the evening of the fourth day, when there was largely better open-air movement, Clark moved Lex's bed and pretty much everything else out of the way, tore up a layer of dirt from the floor, and then put down more of what looked like that slightly springy grey concrete mix used for the floor of the small bathroom.

He made Lex stay in the tiny bathroom area while he did it. The crates and makeshift canvas-curtain door got moved as part of it, so Lex had no privacy for the interim _at all_ , because Clark was there the whole time.

Lex even had to wear the fetters while Clark did it, and it took _the whole day_. Lex was bored stiff.

Clark sank linoleum tile squares into it before the stuff completely set. It was ugly as hell.

...Lex now had one wrist and one leg attached to each chain, right-side both, and the chains were now attached into the wall.

It was still about as likely to come out within Lex's lifetime as the second coming of Christ.

The U-spike had probably been moved because Clark didn't want to mess up the new tile floor, even though the tile was ugly as hell, completely offensive to the eye, and certainly _deserved_ a good spiking or two for the crime of even _existing in the first place_.

Clark had asked Lex if he'd wanted to have them attached differently and where, and Lex had said yes and suggested not at all.

Lex hadn't gotten what he wanted, but he'd gotten his "second-best" choice. Which wasn't much of one, considering.

Clark always unbent the metal shackles from his limbs whenever he came down to see Lex for an uninterrupted period of time, _if Lex requested it_ , for however long he stayed down in the cellar with him.

Lex only asked him twice. The second time was only to confirm the pattern existed. He had his pride.

His lack of requests may have prompted Clark's remodeling phase, because it left Lex with a longer chain and able to use the bathroom in the corner whenever he wanted, without having to ask Clark to let him loose.

Clark always unbent the shackles at some point each day, even when Lex didn't ask. Lex knew that it was just a show of control and a reminder of Clark's brute strength and of his power over him, even though Clark acted like he was doing it just to check to make sure Lex's wrists and ankles were okay, because he always put the shackles back on him again before he left. No exceptions.

Lex always turned it into a struggle, every time Clark put them back on him. No exceptions.

Clearly he wasn't that stupid. Though Lex hadn't yet figured out what he might do to take advantage of the situation if Clark ever _did_ make an exception, or somehow got distracted and forgot.

Clark told him every time he did this to let him know if he wanted to wear them differently, but Lex just gave him the evil eye for even _suggesting_ that he had a real preference that he "liked."

...Lex got a bookshelf, with actual readable books on it, even.

It had some Nietzsche, some old sci-fi, and a smattering of other old fictional classics, as well as philosophies both ancient and modern. A very ecletic mix.

It was also the only piece of furniture that was "his", other than his bed. Clark kept the folding chairs and the card table tucked up against the far wall, out of Lex's reach.

Lex pointedly ignored the books, and informed the Clark that it wasn't any use getting him a desk or chair, because it wasn't as though he could get any actual work done down here, anyway, and the lighting was horrible, besides.

Clark strung up more electrical wiring across the ceiling, and hung down another five more lightbulbs, for better coverage, and it lightened the area considerably. He even found some very light paper-mache and made shade for them. It was more than enough to see by, let alone comfortably read under.

Lex still refused to touch the books.

...Lex got a bathtub.

It wasn't the shower he'd wanted, and he didn't get running hot and cold water. Apparently there was only a cold water line to the storm cellar, which came direct from the main line from the road, separate from the house.

Lex thought about trying to run the water constantly, in an effort to get it noticed, until Clark said, as part of his explanation, that it was off the line used to water the fields. No help there.

The sink, and toilet, and now the bathtub, too, were connected to an old septic tank system. The drain in the floor was connected to a small sub-pump, which was more there in case water somehow flooded in than for the 'bathroom' itself. It was completely separate from anything connected to the farmhouse, Clark had informed him.

In order to take a bath, the tub had to get filled with cold water from the tap, and Clark had to heat it up for him with his laser-eye-beams -- which admittedly were a little scary, because Lex couldn't see the beams like Clark apparently could, just the result. Which was a couple dozen gallons of suddenly steaming-hot water in only a few seconds time.

Clark set this up for him every night. Lex, obstinately, only used it sometimes.

Because of the size of the tub, Lex got 'his' bathroom extended. He had canvas 'walls' up on two sides now, and Clark set up a small vanity table for him, with a place to hold his toiletries and hang his wet towels and such.

It was clearly handmade, by Clark himself, probably from random scraps of wood he'd found around the barn.

Lex only used it because the alternative was tossing his wet things on the floor, living like a slob. At first, this would have been completely infeasible, due to the dirt floor, but even after Clark had put down the tile flooring, and Lex could even have walked about barefoot with impugnity if he'd wanted to (he didn't), Lex didn't push it. Lex didn't have access to cleaning supplies within reach -- no paper towels, no bucket and mop, not even a broom.

He didn't have so much as a trashcan to toss something away into, nevermind that he had nothing to toss _away_. He didn't even get extra clothing, or towels -- Clark rationed everything, controlled everything Lex had access to. Lex got what he asked for, but when he was done -- or when Clark left, whichever came first -- it all got taken right back, used or not.

Lex could have thrown a temper tantrum. He could have torn up all the books, trashed the bed, ripped up all the sheets, broken the bookcase, smeared his toiletries across the floor and walls, broken the mirror and finished it off by smashing every lightbulb within reach. He could have done that. But if he did... he wasn't entirely sure Clark would clean it up. He wasn't even sure if Clark would, eventually, let _him_ clean it up.

He _definitely_ wasn't sure if Clark would replace any of it. So he didn't risk it. He might not be living _well_ , but it was **far** better than sitting in dirt, stuck on a foot-long leash, lying in his own filth, and having to use a bucket for a toilet.

And no, he was _not_ getting Stockholm Syndrome, you couldn't get that if you knew what it was, and hated the situation you were stuck in as much as he did.

He wasn't entirely convinced that Clark didn't have Lima Syndrome, but since Clark was completely unwilling to let Lex go free... taking a wild guess, if Lex were pressed to comment on the situation, he would have to say 'not.'

Lex _did_ throw a temper tantrum once. After dinner on the fifth night, he'd lost his cool, screamed obscenities at Clark, and then, after not getting the response he'd wanted -- as in, _none_ , he'd gotten largely ignored -- he'd thrown an empty glass at Clark's head.

Clark had caught it neatly, despite the fact that he'd had his back turned at the time, and wasn't even looking as he did it.

He'd finished cleaning up the remnants of their dinner, put the card table and folding chairs away, and left without a word.

Lex hadn't slept well that night. Clark's complete lack of response had scared the hell out of him.

He had been jittery when Clark came down the next morning. But Clark had set up breakfast just as he had the previous day in that new way -- pulling out the table and chairs again. The only difference that morning had been Lex's lack of sleep, and that they ate waffles and fruit slices in silence instead of scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by the ever-present milk as the beverage-of-choice.

Lex didn't try that again.

But he didn't apologize, either.

...Lex got used to the quiet.

Lex didn't particularly _like_ the fact that he'd already started getting used to it, in what was probably a very maladaptive sort of way -- since it largely involved lying about and doing more sleeping than was likely good for him -- but he _had_ begun to adapt to the situation he was in.

That Clark had put him in. Was keeping him in.

Barring the fourth day, most of the time Clark wasn't there. Lex figured that he was either working the fields, or off working in Metropolis, hanging around the Isis Foundation or wherever Chloe had been working now these days, assuming his orders hadn't actually gone through. He'd told his people to do what they needed to in order to make Olsen think that he'd had his promise of protection for Chloe 'undone' when Olsen had backed out of their deal prematurely. Unfortunately, he'd lost touch with his people in the middle of his plane flight to the Arctic. For all he knew, that order might've gotten lost in the shuffle. She couldn't have picked up on the trace in the LuthorCorp security database and hacked it out of his systems herself, though -- the latest word had been that she'd been admitted to the hospital in a coma.

Not that he'd have actually sent the Department of Domestic Security after her, awake or in ill health -- he'd already spent a good number of favors in getting her out of the initial charges, and he wasn't about to spend more undoing them. Handing her over to the government would be a stupid move anyway; she knew too much. He'd given his people orders to pick her up themselves, along with Lana, who'd also been hospitalized for a coma... likely at the same place. From what he'd gathered, they'd both seemed to have been suffering from the same ailment with the same symptoms, and he'd wanted them held together in a safe facility over which he had full control.

At the time he'd hoped, or at least assumed that it was within the realm of possibility, that his attempt to use the Orb on Kal-El would be successful, and he would be able to return and work on solving this latest mystery to save them both, but... well, if either Lana or Chloe were 'missing', let alone _both_ of them within such a short time period, he'd have thought that Clark would have accused him of something by now. Clark had certainly had more than enough time to do so, but neither topic had come up even once. Likely, his orders hadn't gone through, and they were both still in the hospital. Which meant that Lex had no leverage on that front at all.

He certainly couldn't risk bringing up the subject himself. If he guessed wrong and they were both still 'out and about', as it were, Clark would know that Lex had had _plans_ for them both, and with no leverage... well, Lex wasn't about to risk subjecting himself to Clark's wrath for something his people may not have even pulled off.

But if Clark _was_ spending his time in Metropolis, possibly working with Lois in tracking either or both of them down, Lex didn't know how Clark managed not to get himself noticed, coming back in the middle of the day. Yes, the farm was out on the outskirts of town, but shouldn't _somebody_ have noticed that he was back to make lunch when he should have been in the middle of the city? Surely, someone would realize that he couldn't take off an hour for lunch and manage this, when it took longer than that to drive the commute, even one way?

Those first few days, Lex had been too busy to be bored. He was angry as hell, and not going to take this shit. He'd thought of everything he knew about Kryptonians, cross-referenced it with what Clark had been doing in front of him ever since the incident -- his _**kidnapping**_ \-- at the Fortress, and tried to come up with as thorough an understanding of Kryptonian abilities and psychology as possible. Then he'd worked on outlining strengths and weaknesses.

He'd run out of steam midway through the second day. He'd finally lost his temper midway through lunch and tried to stab Clark, shocking himself. ...but not, apparently, shocking Clark. After that, and Clark's response --seemingly mild on the surface, but really just an effective show of strength after invulnerability -- he'd fallen into a bout of depression. The fact of the matter was, he simply couldn't get away on his own. Even something drastic, like cutting off his hand _and_ foot to get free of the chains, was completely unworkable -- even if he'd had access to the tools to do so, he'd risk bleeding out first, and even if he did all that without killing himself and managed to get to the cellar stairs and up them, Clark chained up the doors from the outside and held them in place with a lock. He'd either have to have a way to saw through the wood-plank doors -- which there was no way he'd be able to do one-handed even if he'd had a saw on-hand -- or take them off at the hinges.

Taking the hinges off was even less likely -- for that, he'd need both a screwdriver, two working feet to balance on, and a chair or ladder to get at the farthest hinges that were tilted up and away from the stairs. Even then, the doors would fall down _on him_ once he'd gotten them free, and _that_ was assuming that the hinges were actually on the inside. Lex suspected they might not be.

Other options were even less practical. Even if he could manage to get full access to everything in the storm cellar, and somehow make some sort of explosives or acid from what was stored along the shelves in the time it took for Clark to leave and come back in-between mealtimes... He wouldn't be able to get himself free in that timeframe, because making something like that would take _at least_ that long, and using it carefully even longer. But making something that would work? Actually get him loose, and nevermind how much of himself he left behind to do it? No, he couldn't do that in these conditions. Not with his restrictions, and certainly not within the timeframe he had available to him.

He couldn't do anything overnight, either, other than think, or sleep. Overnight, when all the lights were out, they **stayed** out, _or Clark came back over and "asked" him why he was still up_.

Dinner that second night, Clark hadn't sat down anywhere hear him. He'd brought down a folding chair for himself, while Lex was stuck on his bed. He'd been jittery as hell before they'd eaten, but just pissed off all over again by the time Clark had finished cleaning up and asked him mildly if he wanted anything before he'd left. He'd made a haphazard angry comment about not being able to get properly clean in this filthy place.

Clark's lack of response, and the implied threat, had scared Lex that afternoon, but Clark's secondary response -- to get some space between them -- had had Lex wondering if maybe he'd scared Clark into giving him some space.

The third day had initially had him getting his hopes up when Clark had unexpectedly started moving things around. At least, he'd been hopeful until he'd realized that Clark was moving things even farther out of reach. Then Clark had finished by extending his chain, and left.

After he'd been relatively sure that Clark probably wasn't coming back anytime soon, Lex had quickly gotten up and tested out his new range of movement. He'd also come to realize very quickly that, while he had far more 'freedom' to move about than he'd had before, in actuality he was at least twice as far from being able to reach anything on the shelves as he had been before.

That had just about enraged him. He'd thrown himself into plans and ideas for attacking Clark again, however ineffective, just out of spite, and glared daggers at him all throughout lunch when he'd returned. By dinnertime, however, he was struggling with another bout of depression, knowing how futile the whole effort of escape was and vengeance would be, and when Clark asked him if he was all right just before lights-out, he didn't even bother to respond.

The fourth day he could do nothing but watch Clark as he worked. At least the first two days he'd been able to stand up and stretch, move around about a yard or so in any direction, if he'd wanted, and the third he'd gotten the slightest breath of freedom, no matter how much of an illusion it really was. Now he was literally stuck sitting on a toilet lid for hours, his chains shortened and attached to the wall, no walls and no privacy at all, with Clark right there able to watch him the entire time. He'd been bored as hell, and he'd let Clark know it, in no uncertain terms.

He'd thought it a delayed punishment.

He'd ended up with a tile floor, canvas walls, and an extended bathroom area with a bathtub.

Dinner that night had been awkward, sitting on the bed, with Clark in his folding chair. He hadn't known what to think.

Before Clark had left that night, when he'd asked Lex if he needed anything, Lex hadn't said anything.

The bookshelf had just appeared out of nowhere on the fifth day. Clark had put it in before Lex had woken up, and when Lex had complained about the lighting, he'd temporarily shortened Lex's chain -- pulling out the spike and putting it back into the wall through links much farther up the chain, confining Lex to his bed for the interim -- and then fixed it for him, stringing the new wire and installing the new bulbs with coverings. He'd tested it all out, cleaned up, then put Lex back on his longer length.

Then he'd brought down the card table and a second folding chair. They'd had breakfast at a table together.

And then he'd put everything away and left for work.

Lex had tallied up everything that had happened so far, and came to the conclusion that Clark was trying to bribe him.

Things had gotten ugly after that.

That was when he'd _almost_ trashed the entire place.

He'd somehow held his piece up until dinnertime, and all the way through it. He still isn't quite sure how he managed it.

But when Clark had asked him as he was cleaning up the table if the books had been okay, he'd not been able to help himself -- he'd thrown the glass at his head.

Clark had caught it, instead of letting Lex score the hit this time. The glass didn't even crack. And while Clark hadn't said anything, his lack of any real response at having been assaulted at a mealtime with him -- twice, now -- had unnerved Lex. Lex ended up spending most of the night tossed and turning in bed, and finally passed out from pure mental fatigue, wishing all sorts of foul, painful death upon his alien captor, while alternately silently praying that he hadn't finally broken Clark's patience with him.

Then, the next morning, Clark had treated him as if it had never even happened.

Lex still hadn't touched the books, just as a matter of principle -- he was captured, had been kidnapped, and he needed to escape, this wasn't some vacation -- but he'd been getting bored. He couldn't force himself to settle and concentrate and _think_ for any extended period of time -- not about escaping from Clark, or attacking Clark head-on, or trashing the place to relieve his growing frustration and stress, or even of his work or his home or anything else that was awaiting him outside of this place -- not without starting to feel depressed.

After breakfast was over on that sixth day, he'd spent it largely in bed, whenever Clark wasn't there. Unfortunately, with his inability to concentrate properly, and the boredom getting to him, and being so tired from not sleeping well the night before, he'd zoned out and then dozed off at some point. _That_ had thoroughly screwed up his sleeping schedule, so when he'd left the lights on that night a little too late, he'd discovered that Clark's attentiveness extended beyond just what he did during the daytime.

The seventh day, he'd paced the cellar from end to end, over and over again. He tired himself out physically, to match his mental state, but managed to stay awake long enough to try turning on the lights again 'after hours' to see if Clark's response from the previous night was a fluke. It wasn't. Clark still noticed and still came down to see what was going on, and Lex ended up falling asleep shortly after that.

But the majority of all of these days was silence. When Clark was there, they didn't talk much -- Lex being too angry to keep himself civil, and knowing that speaking out when he couldn't control himself properly would do him no good. When Clark _wasn't_ there... Lex was used to being around people. Once he'd hit college, he'd gotten used to talking to and with people, whenever and wherever he wanted. Going back to silence and isolation was difficult, and grated on him, but there really wasn't much he could do about it.

What he didn't feel comfortable doing, though, was trying to relieve the silence by talking out loud to himself. Especially not after the island, and Louis, or after dealing with his own younger self -- who, quite frankly, had seemed less of a conscience and more of a screaming brat that had wanted him either in jail or hopelessly suicidal, as if killing Lionel wouldn't have netted anyone _else_ a goddamn medal of **honor** for doing the "dirty" deed.

One of these days, he was going to figure out why his own subconscious wanted him dead so badly.

At the rate he was going, though, he'd probably figure it out roughly sometime after he managed to convince Clark that Kryptonian science _was not magic_.

He'd largely been avoiding the topic after that first day. Mostly because he hadn't thought he'd be able to get anywhere with him on that front, and had resigned himself to having to think of an escape from Clark on his own.

Unfortunately, that just wasn't possible. So now he was back to square one -- convincing Clark that _science wasn't magic goddamnit_ , and that _he_ **wasn't** a familiar, period, endstop, let alone _Clark's_.

After all, if he wasn't Clark's familiar, then it stood to reason that Clark had no right or reason to lock him up, right?

~*~*~*~*~*~


End file.
